


Dream On

by StarkRogers



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Case Fic, Dark, Disturbing Themes, Insanity, M/M, Plot Twist, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-17
Updated: 2012-08-17
Packaged: 2017-11-12 08:31:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarkRogers/pseuds/StarkRogers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Copyright: This is an original work of fiction. Sherlock Holmes is public domain, making this piece of work legally mine. You may not reproduce or publish this work on any site or in any journal or any other form of media without my permission. </p><p> </p><p>The great Sherlock Holmes is dead, and John Watson is trying to solve the case. However, it seems he is slowly going insane as the memory of Holmes is haunting him. As Watson descends into his personal darkness, will Holmes' murder be solved?</p><p>Multi-chapter case-fic starring Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter I

_September 5th_   
  
I must tell this story from the beginning. I must; it is bad form to start a tale in the middle. But I cannot get the image out of my mind; I am crying out loud in pain; I am pulling at my hair, ink splattering these pages as I break down again, tears burning down my already sore cheeks, puddling with the ink to make a mess of the fourth draft I have attempted to start the proper way.   
  
So I shall cease trying to do so.   
  
His body was twisted in a peculiar fashion that clearly indicated he'd been tossed from a moving cart. No foot prints were left because of this, and there were too many cab tracks for me to possibly decipher which had been the ones belonging to the demonic, hideous villains who had done this. Holmes would know. He would have deduced who, what, when where and why just by looking… looking at…. the body.   
  
Which was broken, twisted, lying as if in the midst of a macabre dance. It would almost have been comical if not for the horror of it all. He was not yet into rigor mortis as the Yard gently picked him up. Broken. All in black.   
  
I curse myself for lacking his insight, his brilliant mind. I haven't even the slightest clue as to where the Yard and I should start! Alas, I can see no more work will be done on this manuscript tonight. It is too raw; to soon. I will try again tomorrow.   
  
_September 7th_   
  
The autopsy was today. It told me only a few things I did not know last night when we found him beside the road.   
  
I asked the usual coroner to leave, as well as Lestrade. I was then alone with him. They had laid him out kindly, arranging his limbs in a respectable facsimile of relaxed sleep, if one ignored the tell-tale rippling of the mid-torso, the artifact of the twisted…  
  
I had to stop. I kept looking at his face. I was either going to break down completely, or rise above this. Holmes had always been there for me, he had always been strong even with his vices. I didn't want to do this cold and detached; I couldn't disrespect him so. And so it was that I gently pressed a gloved finger to his cold lips before at last picking up a scalpel.   
  
I took samples of everything. I recorded everything with reverence, even the most minute details. Holmes always said that the smallest detail could indeed be the case breaker. I measured every bruise with a gentle hand. He had beneath his fingernails a peculiar substance. I cannot figure out what it is just yet. And there was an odd bruise on his back, the shape of which I cannot clearly identify. It reminds me of something, but like the substance on his hands, I cannot place my finger on it. 


	2. Chapter II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson investigates the apartments, and recalls how this horrible tragedy began.

_Sept. 8th_   
  
I do not sleep well these days, but I cannot think any less would be expected of me. I pour over the facts of the case for hours, much like he used to. My sessions are far less successful, I fear. Furthermore, I do not dream even when I do nod off for a few hours. My mind is an empty, black void. This frightens me and only adds to the insomnia.   
  
I returned to the apartment today, hoping there would be further clues to illuminate this case. And so now might be a good time to finally return to the beginning, as I have returned to my true home, to where this case began.   
  
Holmes and I had just finished up a case of considerable interest, and after an evening of commiseration and congratulation I returned home to my wife in a cab, leaving Holmes in a jovial mood. At three and five in the morning our quiet household was awakened by a powerful banging upon our doors. Fearing an invader, I grabbed my revolver and leapt out of bed, crouching as I approached the door. As I drew nearer I heard a voice from the other side, shouting.  
  
"Dr. Watson! Dr. Watson, wake up!" The voice was that of Inspector Lestrade! What on earth could he be doing at my home at such an unholy hour? Ice drew through my veins as I stood, setting the revolver aside and opening the door. Lestrade's face was as pallid as the moon, his hands shaking in a way I have never seen. The shrew-like man seemed even smaller than normal, and looked at me with eyes so wild I almost closed the door in his face from fear.   
  
"What on earth-"  
  
"You must come immediately!" he cried, not even allowing me to continue my question. He nearly tried to drag me out of my house with nothing but my housecoat on, to which I protested vehemently. I know now the reason for his desperation and haste. At the time, I only knew that a small ball of panic was growing in my stomach.   
  
I pried myself away from him and changed quickly, meeting him outside at the police carriage. The ride was solemn, and my fear grew by the minute to see the drawn faces of the officers in the carriage. I seemed to be riding in a box of skeletons as we rattled through London. Though I inquired Lestrade as to the nature of the emergency he was mute, and each time he attempted to tell me he ended with a choking sound, shaking his head. We were driven to a bridge some several blocks away from our old rooms at Baker Street. We left the carriage and headed down a steep hill.  
  
And there we found him.   
  
Let me turn now to the apartments and my investigation of them. As I wandered up the stairs, I let them tell me the story as so often had our surroundings told Holmes stories. Thirteen stairs; scuff marks half way up the left side of the wall, black rubber from shoes. A struggling body being carried down? I surmised only one person had been carrying him. If there had been two, one of them would have been carrying his feet, and there would be no marks on the wall. It was also a sign that Holmes had been alive for at least a short while, and had put up a struggle. It raised my spirits to know he had not simply been overwhelmed during one of his binges, when I should have been there for him.   
  
I found traces of the same dark substance on the railing of the stairwell as I had found beneath Holmes' nails, but I still could not identify it. The odour was unremarkable to me, though I'm sure Holmes could have placed it. Perhaps it was an ash of some sort? There was a smeared hand print near the top of the stairs. By placing my hand upon it I could see that the man was much larger than I, and indeed larger than Holmes. Another feeling of grim satisfaction went through me.   
  
So, a large strong man had overpowered Holmes in the apartments, but not without a struggle. Near the top of the stairs, it seems likely that Holmes gave such a start that the brute was forced to lean against the wall with one hand for a moment before continuing on. Holmes had then been carried down the stairs at such and angle as to have access to only the left side, which he kicked against with much energy.   
  
I could deduce nothing more from the stairs, but I was convinced there was likely another man acting here. Large brutes rarely work alone. There was a brain behind this kidnapping, and he surely left some sign.    
  
Alas! I realise I have been remiss in recording the cause of death; so addled is my mind right now. These notes will have to be reorganised before I turn them in as an official report.   
  
My dear Sherlock Holmes… It seems you were killed from a violent twisting of the neck and spine. I can only steel myself against this and deduce that you proved yourself such a threat to your kidnappers that they had to resort to such brutal force to dispose of you. I can find strength in that, strength in the knowledge that you struggled to the very last moment. I would quite honestly go mad otherwise. It means you were not broken, emotionally, mentally or spiritually. They could not break your mind, Holmes, and so they had to break your body.   
  
I can envision their frustrations all too clearly, having lived with you for so long. Your obstinate nature must have driven them mad. I myself have been drawn very near the line of physical frustration with you; and our infrequent bouts show that. I can easily imagine a lesser man doing more when faced with the might of your mind. Just letting all common sense go and throttling you, shaking you, making the sarcastic voice stop, the keen, piercing eyes fade to dull marbles, the grasping, searching fingers laying still at last. Yes Holmes, I can see why they did it. But hail! Let no one who reads this think that I had any foul feelings against you. How could I? Only you know - knew - how deeply our bond went.   
  
Your constant deductions - Did you know where you were being held? I have no doubt you likely did know. And I know you must have left clues for me to find, a way to discover you, to find them.   
  
And I will find them!  
  
I am too tired to continue; the explanation of what I found in our rooms will have to wait until the 'morrow.


	3. Chapter III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson continues his exploration of the apartments, and recalls an intimate moment with Holmes.

_September 9th_  
  
I believe I dreamed last night, it must have been a dream because you were here, with me, but it was like a time we had before. I cannot shake this sense of deja vu -  
  
 _Your hands touching me, everywhere at once, too rough at times because of the adrenaline, the cocaine, the weather even. No, it was a fight. Your kisses are devouring me, rough stubble burning against my lips as you growl in frustration. You lost that night, energy unspent. Before I can stop you your mouth is scraping down my neck, rasping against bare skin as I cry out. I am in charge of preparing myself on these nights or you would potentially hurt both of us, hiding as you are behind that feral gloss in your eyes. I do all this while fighting against you disrobing me, tight hands trying to move me where you want them despite my efforts.  
_  
Yet in the dream, as you threw off your shirt, I saw the mark. The mark on the back of your body in the morgue. The shape is still vague to me, but I feel like I should know it.  
  
 _I am undressed with enough time to grasp you, slicken your member before you press against me urgently, throwing me down on my back against the carpet. Frantically I attend you with one hand, wincing as I scissor into myself as quickly as I can. You slip in suddenly, sensing an opening in my defenses and we both gasp. I try to arch away but you hold me firm with inhuman strength.  
  
I will be bruised the next morning. You will soothe me with kisses and caresses. And I will not let you apologize, because I know you need a sheathe as badly as I need a sword._  
  
Why am I dreaming such things? We had happier times; why does it feel like this case is drawing out every black memory of you I have?  
  
The rooms. I must explain the rooms before I forget something crucial - what am I saying? I likely already have. I probably didn't even see the damned clue.  
  
The door was broken in. Nearly torn from the hinges it hung open, a wounded entry into our violated rooms. There were wine glasses on the side table; I remember them from the night before it happened, when we were celebrating. The wine was a gift from the victim's mother, and most generous gift judging from the year on the bottle. We both drank heavily at our joy of solving the case, as it had been a difficult one. I nearly stayed the night - Oh! how I wish I had now, of course. But Mary was expecting me back and so I left you at ten past ten. What happened between then and three A.M. is up to the rooms to tell me.  
  
The thick carpet revealed a chaos of footprints, but after a few minutes they resolved into three clear sets, not counting my own and a few thin ones that likely belonged to our housekeeper. There were yours, so obvious with the square tipped shoe and in some places, bare feet in socks. The brute's imprints were also quite obvious, being larger than any I have seen in quite some time. Finally, and this is the one I had been waiting for, there was a third, mysterious set of prints. A thin shoe, large enough to be male, with a pointed toe. Quite high fashion in fact. My mind tumbled over the hundreds of deductions you could have gotten just from these footprints, but all I managed was that the brute's brains belonged to a wealthy, likely young lad of average height and weight.  
  
I attempted to follow them around the room and deduce their exact actions as you so often have done, but again all I could surmise is that they took you not by surprise, but from the front. You must have been sleeping in the armchair I left you in, and awoken when the door was broken in. They dragged you to your feet and into the stairwell, housecoat and all it seems. Yet they paused to let you put on your shoes? How else could your shoe scuffs have gotten on the walls of the stairwell? Perhaps they had intended for you to walk a considerable distance once removed from the house. But sympathy enough to have you put on your shoes yet not your coat is boggling.  
  
I am still unable to figure out the logic behind this. I will write more tomorrow; perhaps sleep will assist my deductive skills. You seem to be invading my mind as I sleep. I hope you will illuminate me on these matters.

  



	4. Chapter IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson hits upon a clue, and dreams once more of Holmes.

_September 10th_   
  
I dreamt of you once more last night, but it was not of a time we'd had together in the past. The smell of your pipe enveloped me - I can still smell the blasted thing now, even as I am awake! Why it lingers so! - as if embedded in my sheets. It was your pipe, and it did so comfort me. You were there, beside me as if I had awoken from a nightmare. How now I wish it were true, that I could return to that dream. I cannot recall what you were wearing for I could not see you; all seemed to be black but the glow on the bedside and your pipe shining. It was rude of you, I said, to smoke such a thing. You seemed confused; the pipe wavered in its floating position. I said to you it was rude to comfort a man who was in mourning with a presence you could not offer during the waking hours. I told you of what transpired, how you were taken away and how you were gone.  
  
Yet here I lay, the smell of your pipe lingering in my nose, clinging to the bedsheets. I will have to change them. I cannot bear it. Yes, indeed all traces of the smell must be expunged! I will clean my room from top to bottom; there is nothing in here for me to deduce, no clue to be found. I am not erasing any evidence of the case, simply of you.  
  
~~  
  
I cleaned my room with a mindless vigor brought on by the maddening desire to erase all traces of you from those linens, the walls, the carpet. Yet the smell still clings on! I fear even airing out the room will do no good, for the window has been open for hours and no difference has come about. I finally retreated to the living room to escape the stench and found upon the tables we'd sat at during our celebration the wretched instrument of my current malaise. I picked it up, turning it in my fingers in the dim light of the evening sun coming through the opened drapes. You never did like those drapes open, preferring to keep the sitting room as dark as a cave. Well, now that evening light has done some good! When I withdrew my fingers from the pipe, that light showed to me a trace of black powder!   
  
I considered this with suspicion. The same black powder had been found in the hall: clearly it was the work of the brute who carried you away. Yet, how had it come to be upon your pipe? I looked within the pipe. If it were simply on the outside then I could deduce that the brute tore it from your mouth as he entered. If some were inside… the black ash-like substance fell from within your pipe as I tapped it against a tea saucer. It had thus been placed within the pipe for some purpose; but what? An inhaled poison? A trace of vigor returned to me, and with shaking hands I opened my medical kit, removing from it several liquids with which to test for poison. I tested each in turn, mixing them with samples of the black powder. With each test my enthusiasm fell, until at last I had consumed all my samples and come up with nothing. The powder was non-reactive with all, showing it to be simply an inert, harmless substance. But then how could this be? Why would it be placed within your pipe, and on the hands of the brute? It boggles me.   
  
I sighed, reclining in your chair with disappointment. I turned your pipe around gently in my fingers, caressing the curves, sliding my fingers against the fine, smooth wood. I let each and every grain burn into my mind, memorizing the deep red flush and iridescence as the heated evening sun blazed across the veneer. At last, exhausted from my day of cleaning and investigating, I closed my eyes, resting the bulb of the pipe against my forehead. As I drifted off to sleep, I swore I felt your lips on my cheek, trembling and soft. Even in this twilight you will not leave me alone, will you Holmes?


	5. Chapter V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson gets into a scuffle, and discovers another clue.

_September 12th_  
  
Tonight I nurse a broken nose and several lacerations; you would surely chastise me for being neglectful, unobservant, and generally placing myself in hazardous positions with no regard for my own safety, especially considering how often I rant about you doing the same. But you are not here to do so, and that stings worse than the scrapes. Your absence in my heart aches more than the bruises; my memories burn worse than anesthetic. You torment me Holmes!  
  
Why  
       must  
               you  
                     remain…  
  
Holmes! You daft, INSUFFERABLE vision! Vague and maddening even in my dreams! Tormenting me from the morgue! Begone from my mind, my memory if all you are choosing to do is harangue me!  
  
Yes Holmes, my jacket indeed had upon it -  
  
Wait, let me explain. I dreamt of you again just now. This poor, suffering manuscript, it must endure the inadequacies of my strained mind. I shall go back. I fell asleep just now, after returning home and patching myself up, but before I explain that I suppose I should record how I came to be injured in the first place.  
  
My injuries are a catalogue of an experience I had while indulging my old vices this afternoon. Gambling on cards, on the fights, looking for hints of you in the ring. Dried drops of blood not yet cleaned from the week before. Patrons asking after you, others crying out to me with condolences. I was quite quickly beyond inebriated through their gifted rounds, yet despite their pity for me I still lost all the money I'd brought with me. Several mammoths came to escort me out of the club when I became unable to pay my debts, forgiving me perhaps this once due to the circumstances, or so I thought.  
  
One stayed behind as the others shuffled back inside. I thought perhaps he was simply standing guard to make sure I did not attempt to sneak back inside, but I had no intentions after the cold evening air hit my face, sobering me slightly. I moved away, pulling my jacket and tie into a more respectable position. I made it no more than three feet when I was aware of a movement behind me, and the next moment my foggy mind registered my face being pressed into the chilled brick wall.  
  
I growled, confused and slow to react. Unconsciously my body moved to slip free of the grip and turn, only to find a fist impacting my face full on - the source of my broken nose. I stumbled backwards to the ground, carrying down with me several wooden crates with empty bottles, to which I credit the lacerations on my arms and side. The neck of one bottle slipped easily into my thick fingers, and as the blurred face above me dove down, I broke the bottle across it. The scream was viscerally satisfying. I stood on instinct, letting the animal and soldier inside of me take over. I lurched towards the beast clutching its face. It swung at me defensively and I slashed open the arm with the broken bottle, advancing through the opening to shove the behemoth against the wall as I had been but a few moments before. He tried to lunge at my neck but I simply ducked beneath his arms, using his own momentum to send his face sausaging into the opposite wall, my hand against the back of his head. He fell and made no attempt to rise as my own wounds began to sting. I blinked through swelling eyes, dropped the broken bottle and staggered out of the alley.  
  
I hailed a cab, and thankfully the driver knew me, knew you. He gave me the ride, expecting I suppose that the credit would be payed in due time, what with you in charge of the finances. It makes me laugh bitterly now.  
  
After I returned to our rooms I patched myself up, starting with the still bleeding wounds on my arms and side. By this point my eyes were nearly swollen shut. I think you would consider it possibly my worst stitching ever. Tomorrow, if I can see at all, I may remove them and do a better job. I assessed the broken nose in the mirror of the bathroom, rinsing the dried blood away down the sink. I cannot breathe through it at the moment due to the clots which must stay in place lest I wish to dirty every linen in the rooms, staunching the flow.  
  
Then I sat to write down the account when it was fresh in my mind, but fatigue overcame me. I awoke from the maddening dream I mentioned above and stormed through the rooms like a possessed man, my dirtied coat in tow.  
  
In my dream Holmes, it was once more like waking from a long sleep. I believed for a few moments that you had in fact found me unconscious in that alley and were nursing me to health. I told you of what happened, and you frowned sadly at my behavior, as I knew you would. Like the dream before I could not see all of you, but I felt your hands comforting me, holding my shoulders, gently caressing my face. As I described the fight your hands became amused, tapping on my shoulder a chastisement.  
  
"Watson," you said to me, "you old fool. I beg you take a look at your jacket. Were you not just telling me about a large man whisking me away from the apartment?" Your words reminded me of the sober truth: this was not you. Sherlock Holmes, the real Holmes, was laying on a metal bed in the Yard, awaiting my final word for the funeral. You broke away like glass shattering in my hands and I found myself at my desk, warm ink wetting my face against the paper. Your voice lingered on, and I swear you were crying. Evening had long set, and the darkness cloyed at me.  
  
Your words consumed me. My jacket? The brute that stole you away? I stood, wiping my face with a dirty cloth napkin. My jacket was slung over the back of your armchair. I stumbled over to it and laid it out on the tiger skin rug, looking at first the front and then the back in the orange light of the fire. On the back there was a monstrously large footprint. I thought back to the fight, when I had been flung into the wall. It could certainly have been a foot; I had been so drunk at the time I daresay I couldn't have told the difference between a shrew and a snake. As I sat staring at the dirty foot print my mind cleared away the remaining cobwebs of sleep.  
  
My swollen eyes widened as much as they could, and I quickly dragged the jacket over to the imprints still visible on the carpet near the door. I had not left the apartment in days, and so they remained undisturbed. They were the same size! The same unusual and unmistakable size. Surely few men in London possessed feet of this size! My mind whirled. The killer was clearly intending to kill me in the alley; the viciousness of his attack should have done me in were I not so stalwart. What have they against me? These two - the brute and the boy - had designs against not just you, but me as well.  
  
If only I had been there...


	6. Chapter VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson revisits Holmes' body in the morgue.

_September 13th_   
  
I have refused to return to my dear Mary, though she begs me so. I could not prior in my misery show such weakness to her. Now armed with the knowledge that the killers are still searching for me I cannot endanger her, and have requested through telegram that she leave at once for her parents' home in the countryside. I have no doubt that minds sinister enough to poison and kill Sherlock Holmes would stoop to harming my wife and household to get at me.   
  
Her reply this morning chilled me, though thank heaven she had the common sense not to visit the apartments in person.   
  


_John, as you are well aware, our dear friend Holmes has been held at the mortuary these past days upon your request. However, the morticians are requesting you have his arrangements taken care of post haste, for such preparations are unfortunately a timely matter. I'm sure you realise this, because I know you have visited him every day. Surely you know it is time_.

_Love, Mary_

  
Only Mary could have stated such distasteful things so politely. What she alluded to was the staff complaining that you are becoming… ripe. And it is true I have visited you each day since the beginning. I cannot stay away! The room is cold and I shiver, sitting by your side. I have wasted many hours with my hand in yours, no warmth to comfort me, no firm grip to assure me. I will return today then, one last time before giving them the word to do what embalmers do. I expect you would find the prospect distasteful, not wishing such sentimental nonsense to be done to your body. And though the public expects it, I think I will deny them such for your sake. A closed casket then, your body unsullied and explored only by my own hands.   
  
~~   
  
Here I am then, with you one last time. I write this entry by your side, though it is difficult to pen neatly as I quake. You seem nearly as alive as you did the night we found you, Holmes. A blanket lays across your chest, hiding what I did to you in my search for clues. I pat your hand gently; rigor mortis has left you these past few days and your yielding flesh could be asleep if I were to fool myself. I softly slide my thumb up the familiar contours of your arm, past veins flattened from a lack of circulation, along tendons still taut, muscles finely wrought. My fingers stutter over scrapes and cuts, working their way up.   
  
Your shoulder is still strong, though bruised and battered. Your shattered clavicle is the first outward sign of serious trauma, the broken line of such a smooth bone jarring against your pale skin. I stand up, crouched over you, my fingers continuing across the top of your chest, catching against the blanket but being careful not to disturb it. They rest gently at the base of your throat, fluttering to where a pulse should have beat - but nothing. I trail my nails up that fine neck, following your strong jaw. I can feel stubble there now, the common growth of hair after the body has died. The beginning of a morning shave you never got to have. I find those lips again, which seem to hold a life-like firmness, that permanent scowl you were so well known for. No doubt the embalmers would attempt to disfigure your visage into one of "peace" and "relaxation". Yet another reason not to let them lay their hands on you!   
  
My thumb caresses your lips for a few more moments. I run a solitary finger down the long bridge of your nose; so hawk like, so intelligent. I almost smile then, seeing you alive in my mind for a brief moment, your eyes open and gray, looking at me intently down the length of that nose. It used to make me bend to your will when ever you looked at me that way.   
  
I close my eyes and give in to the delusion that you are simply asleep. I bow my head, laying a kiss against your forever-frozen lips. I must be out of my mind as I trail the kiss down your jaw, my lips heating your skin. Your turn your head, I imagine, declaring it is all just a ploy, case solved! Your arms wrap around me as I cry out in surprise, and our lips smash together again, your breath coming once more, your mouth truly hot with need, tongue wet and insistent.   
  
"Watson!" you cry, pulling my head away, holding it between your hands. "John, go back to the apartments! You have missed a most important clue. Look at both pieces!" My vision trembles, tunneling away as a dizzying weight presses upon me. It clears as I fall unbalanced, clutching the edge of your table in sickness and in fear. Your hand, disturbed by my motions, slips over the edge, the cool palm patting me comfortingly on the back.   
  
I retch, doubling over beneath the table, spilling out the tea that had counted as lunch, clutching myself like a child, begging for unconsciousness to come before the staff does, horridly aware of my falling erection.   
  
~~   
  
The staff brought Mary with them and found me beneath your table, my wishes for a faint having been answered, so it seems. They simply assumed I was overcome by grief at last, and drove Mary and I home in a police cab. They promised to post deputies at the doors, and slightly comforted by this, I let Mary lead me into our home.   
  
It was covered in flowers: more flowers than I believe I have ever seen in my life. They covered every surface; bouquets and baskets and vases of them, overflowing onto the floor and up the stairs. Stunned, I sat in an armchair, Mary easing my weight down. They were all for Holmes, she said, for the funeral. I stared for a few moments more, and was suddenly overcome with grief and sickness of the heart once more. Mary embraced me and I wrapped my arms around her. I was terrified for a moment that she too would fall to a table, dead in my hands but she remained warm, living, alive.   
  
My tears wet her collar, hot and torrential. She held on as I shuddered, though she could not know half the grief I suffered. She could not know the love we had for each other, how deep our relationship truly ran, Holmes. Nor did she know what I had done just over an hour ago; yet she seemed to accept this break down and remained by my side as I sobbed for nearly a half hour. Every time I seemed to gain control I was sent back down into the spiral, for it seemed to me as if your arms were embracing me as well. In the end I told her my wishes for your closed casket and she arranged everything herself. I was utterly useless in this, and I am ashamed I could not do that for you, Holmes.   
  
I have decided to spend the night at my own house, exhausted from the day. Yet as I lay down now something nags at the back of my mind. Pieces of a whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know body hair doesn't grow after you die, but it was a common belief in the Victorian Ear.


	7. Chapter VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson attends Holmes' funeral, and returns to working on the case.

_Sept 14th_

__  
Your funeral is today. I take the time to write in this journal as a desperate attempt to hold off the inevitable, to close this off from my mind for a few moments more. But Ms. Hudson is knocking on our doors, and I hear Mary in the hall. They will not let me stay here, alone and safe. So I will go. I will go to the small church, the tiny viewing room. I will bear your weight out the doors to the cart. I will carry you with Lestrade and Clark and much of the Yard to the grave. And I will watch them lower you down.  
  
I will go, but your morocco case on your desk suggests a way I may deal with the pain of it all. I walk to it, open it and examine the shining syringe in the early morning light. Then I shake my head. To imbibe such a thing now would be paramount to injecting your very essence into my veins, and the burning starlight of your clarity would surely drive me mad with visions. I need to be sane for this, as sane as I can manage at the moment.  
  
I choose instead several swift shots of bourbon.   
  


~~~

  
The gathering of people is larger than I had expected, and I had been expecting many, judging from the flowers in my home. But this… this is beyond comprehension. Every client you have helped seems to be here Holmes, and even some of those you have put away whose time has been paid. They are of course furious that your casket is closed but Lestrade assures them it is for their own sakes, and that you had expressed to me in life that it was your wish.    
  
I must thank Lestrade later for this; he is taking on the burden of addressing so many of the guests while I seclude myself in a corner. I cannot escape attention however, and client after client accosts me, expressing sorrow and thanks for the services you and I have rendered them. They ask me how I am faring and I lie, saying I am fine. To tell the truth would have me committed to the nearest asylum, and from within those walls I could not solve your murder.   
  
My mind has not turned to the details of the case for two days now, but perhaps when this horrid, dreadful, unbearable ordeal is over I will be able to continue in some semblance of peace. And perhaps you will be at peace as well, and finally stop haunting me. I cannot function in this state; your scent surrounds me at every waking moment, and when I pause even for a moment to relax, to close my eyes and think, your touch caresses me, maddeningly real. If you are trying to reach me from beyond the grave you are doing so in a purely frustrating way, one I imagine only you of all spirits could devise.    
  
Lestrade has shared with me some facts about the case I'm sure he finds fascinating. It seems the family whose case we solved just before you left is here today. I can't see why Lestrade finds this unusual; nearly every client of yours is here, as I have said! I told him as such, and he nodded, but added that the young son's personal butler was absent. I knotted my eyebrows at this; the two men had been inseparable during the case. I glanced over at the young man. He is dressed finely as usual, but the cut of his suit is a little too fashionable for such an occasion. He never takes his eyes off your casket either, but such obsession is hardly a concern of mine. I am sure there are dozens of people in this room gazing at your casket with the same look.    
  
I will set this notebook aside now, for your service is beginning proper. I would remain back here, near the doors but proper civility dictates that I, as your closest compatriot, must be seated nauseatingly close to your casket, and share a few words about you. Have they not read my stories? There is nothing I will tell these people more that I have not written in those tales.    
  


~~~

  
You haunt me at your very funeral Holmes! I had not but stepped foot behind the dais and looked out into the gathered crowd that I saw your damned face!! Well, not quite your face; a wax-paper, translucent facsimile, clouded and indeterminate. I thought for a moment that perhaps I had indeed taken some of your seven percent solution, but my memory is not so faulty. I stumbled through a speech about your greatness as ladies cried and men frowned deeply to hide the sorrow in their eyes. Your eyes pierced me as I spoke, and they were the only part of your face I could see clearly. You sat in the open chair next to where I myself was placed, and so I was forced to sit next to you when my dedication ended. Lestrade led me to my chair and helped force me down despite my flailing. I almost gave away my mental state right there, foundering beneath his firm hands.  
  
"No, Lestrade," I hissed, "I can't, Holmes is…" He eyes me darkly, confusion on his face as another speaker stepped up to wax poetic about you. I faltered, glancing down at you sitting there, looking up at me. With a shudder I collapsed into the chair as far away from your image as I could, curled in upon myself.   
  
I heard nothing of what the next speakers said, for I was far too busy attempting to ignore your specter. You inched your way across the seats and placed a hand on my thigh - such a real weight I felt then! I nearly gasped, rocking back and forth. I know the people around me were staring; how could they not? The venerable Doctor Watson, whimpering in his chair at his friend's funeral, acting for all sensibilities like a mad man! Well I am mad! And it is due to you, Holmes!  
  
You whispered in my ear, but the blood was pounding so heavily in my head I heard almost none of it, feeling instead the warmth of your breath on my skin. When your lips pressed against my cheek I stood violently, hands quaking in fists. I stormed out of the wake like a man possessed - and surely I was! Surely I was. I was possessed by a need for you, one that could never been satiated again. I needed your voice, your wit, your humor, your touch. I could have none of it, yet you insisted on teasing me!  
  
The bathroom door protested my thundering entrance, and squealed in protest as I slammed it shut, turning the lock. I turned on the faucet and threw blindingly cold water onto my face, clutching the porcelain edge like an anchor to sanity. I trembled still, my throat dry, breathing rapid. I forced myself to take in a few deep breaths and take stock of myself in the mirror. I nearly fainted then, for there you were behind me, seated on the loo like a throne, wearing your housecoat.   
  
"Holmes…" I whimpered, sinking despite my death grip on the sink. I spun, expecting you to be gone like so many dreams but you remained, solid and opaque. I nearly fell onto you, straddling your lap as your arms embraced me.   
  
Your mouth found my neck, mouthing it through my tall collar. I returned the favor blindly, fearing every moment that you would suddenly turn cold and rigid and I would find myself in the most depraved position, perched upon your corpse in the bathroom with no knowledge of how I got you there in the first place. Your flesh stayed warm however, and pliant beneath my lips and teeth. I hungered for you so deeply I didn't even notice how or when my trousers came undone, simply that they were now open and around my thighs. You slipped thin fingers between my legs and I cried out, arching my back as those deft digits circled and caressed. I clutched the pipes on the wall with one hand, the other pressed against your shoulder as your mouth undid the buttons of my vest and shirt. Your hands worked at me from the front and from behind, and I was helpless to stop you as you wet your fingers with my own fluids, sliding them inside me with practiced ease. I groaned and pressed back against you, driving into your hand for more. You gripped me tightly in the front and squeezed while curling your fingers inside of me, and sparks erupted behind my eyes as I forgot how to breathe for several moments. Your mouth placed against my bared neck, your voice seeming to travel through my flesh.  
  
"John…" I shuddered to hear your voice, still begging with my hips against your hands for more. "John, I'm not dead." You muttered, and for a brief moment I believed you. I looked up at you as you lay over me on your bed, your housecoat hanging open, revealing your chest, wet with sweat. It was a delicious sight and one I wished to savor. Yet…  
  
"No." I whispered, and I closed my eyes tightly. "No, you are. You are! I am burying you today Holmes! You are nothing more than my own corrupted imaginings…"   
  
"Watson!" You hissed insistently against my ear. "Stop this nonsense immediately and wake up!" I opened my eyes again and looked at you, confusion and pain in my eyes.   
  
"But I can't Holmes… you only exist now in my dreams. Like now. I am dreaming, I must be. Because you are here." I smiled softly at you, and caressed your face. Your hair, so soft and brown as light filtered through the open window. I laughed; I knew I must be asleep. You never kept the windows open. I had opened them myself when I cleaned the rooms. "Just a dream," I repeated, closing my eyes again.   
  
"Watson!" you cried above me, but I already felt you fading, disappearing into nothingness. I opened my eyes again, and I was perched on the toilet, alone. My own hands were placed where yours had been moments before, and I ached from the lack of release. My sense of civility took over once more and I was disgusted with myself, disgusted with what I was doing in a public bathroom. I removed my hands and washed myself at the sink, splashing more cold water over myself to cool the fire and forced myself back into my trousers.   
  
Lestrade was waiting down the hall, having apparently followed me out of concern, but seeing me enter the water closet had backed away and given me some privacy. I could barely meet his eyes; how much had he heard? A quick glance revealed nothing but concern on his wide face, his eyes small but warm with worry. I lifted my head and forced a smile, nodding with a sigh at the unspoken question.  _Are you sure you are alright, Watson?_  He patted my elbow and led me back into Hell.  
  


~~~ 

  
A few hours later and it was over, and with no more appearances from you, Holmes. Perhaps laying you to rest will allow me some rest as well, without your memory haunting me. I do not believe in the occult any more than you do, and so I cannot bring myself to believe it is truly your ghost or spirit that is hounding me. Rather it is simply my own mind producing these phantoms.   
  
To be honest, I find a ghost less frightening at this moment.   
  
In the hansom I had a few minutes to myself. My mind felt clear and I let it wander to the details of the case without fear of you interrupting. Lestrade had found the absence of the young master's butler to be unusual, and if the Inspector felt it important, then surely there was a detail within it that I was missing. I recalled everything I knew about the butler, pulling my notebook out of my jacket pocket to review my notes. After just a few moments I nearly smacked my own head! I called to the driver to stop and change direction, taking us to the police station immediately!    
  
The butler was a large man, as memory served me. The brute that invaded our apartments was also a very large man. Third, the man who attacked me in the alleyway was a large man whose shoes matched that of your kidnapper. The coincidence was too strong! Only the files from the case we had just solved stored at the Yard could confirm my hypothesis however, and there was still the issue of motive. Why on earth would the young master's butler wish to kill you and I, Holmes?    
  
The sun was setting as we arrived at the Yard and I dashed inside. Reviewing the case in Lestrade's office, there was no doubt that the large butler was my man. The heights and weights matched perfectly according to the estimates taken from the footprints on my jacket and the carpet. I had him! But why had he done it? I slouched down in the wooden chair at Lestrade's desk. With no motive, the accusation would not hold in court. I could not confront the man; he was being held in the safety of the family's home and I was certain the household had no idea of his involvement.    
  
I bit my thumb, pondering. The slim shoes at our rooms… Could they belong to the son? That did not clarify things one bit. A son could have reason to be offended at his father's arrest, but he had shown no such anger at the time. The dealings of the father had been in the illegal selling and buying of large sums of gold, melted down from precious family heirlooms. Several expensive pieces had been lost before Holmes was contacted as council. For all appearances, the son had in fact seemed quite happy that the shadow of his father's crime had been lifted from the family. And then there was still the matter of how the butler had managed to poison you… I pinched the bridge of my nose in frustration. I had the man! but without motive I could do nothing.   
  
"Watson, you really should not sigh so deeply," you commented. My eyes snapped open: you were seated next to me at the desk, rifling idly through the papers scattered about.    
  
"Go. Away." I replied harshly, gathering the papers from your hands. It was exhaustion, I reasoned. I was suddenly quite tired. It had been a long day, and now I was simply over tired. The flickering of the lanterns was hypnotizing to me, slowly drawing out my energy. I stumbled out of the chair, placing the papers back into their files. As I stepped away from the desk I swooned, and your strong arms caught me. You lifted me to your chest like a child, and all went black.


	8. Chapter VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson hits upon a major clue in the case.

_Sept 15th_  
  


_I am in our apartments again, staring forth from your battered armchair. Gladstone is chewing on my sock. I look around for a few moments, disoriented. Was I not just… at the Yard? I raise my hand to rub my forehead and find that something is in my hand. I look at it, eyebrows knotted. The cork of a wine bottle? I feel as if I have entered the looking glass into Wonderland… and then everything returns to me.  
_

  
I wrote the above an hour ago after waking in much confusion. I had nothing but my shirt and pants, socks and no shoes. How I wish I could return to those few scant moments of confused sanity. I have pieces of this case, threads as you so often called them. I have threads, Holmes, but I cannot see where they lead or even how they are related! The wine cork was one such thread, but this morning I vowed to solve it.   
  
The obvious message your ghost or my own unconsciousness was giving me was to return to the wine bottle. I had so obviously assumed it was poisoned I had never even bothered to test it. I set the bottle on your work table next to your pipe with the inert black dust coating it. I rolled up my sleeves and set to work. I quickly ran through the tests much as I had done a few days before on the black substance. My depression at the results was even greater than the first time. Harmless! I nearly threw the bottle of wine to the floor in disgust. How could this be! I could not imagine any world where Sherlock Holmes was carried healthy and aware out of his own apartment. If you had been fully conscious at the time I know without a doubt that I would have been awoken by a much cheerier Lestrade that dark morning. You must have been drugged… But how? The wine was inert, the black coal like substance was inert. Neither piece of evidence could have…   
  
I was distracted by the bell, and Ms. Hudson opened the door to tell me that Lestrade was waiting to see me. I nodded and told her to see him up. I threw my tools onto the work bench in disgust as the Inspector walked in.   
  
"Dr. Watson…" he said, looking around the apartment critically. It was a bit of a mess admittedly, moreso than you and I usually kept it. "You left these papers out in my office last night. I looked through them; pardon the intrusion. You may be on to something here! I daresay you have some of the same gift that he had."   
  
I am sure the Inspector intended to comfort me, and possibly compliment me. Instead I snarled and tore the papers from his hand, my mood befouled by the failed tests on the wine. I tossed the papers to the side and they scattered over the settee and onto the floor.  
  
"They're useless," I remarked, pacing around Lestrade. "Even if there is a solid connection between the butler and the man who assisted in the kidnapping, we are lost without a motive! And I haven't a  _hundredth_  of the skill he had, or we would not be in this predicament at all!" I found myself yelling at the Inspector by the point, and the ferret-like man drew back from me, cowering.   
  
"Well said," you suddenly commented from your armchair. I twitched, my eyes landing on you for a brief moment before returning to the Inspector. He clearly hadn't heard you, as he gazed at me most quizzically. You stood, gathering some of the papers and walking around the room. "Hmn. Nothing too groundbreaking here, though I do suggest you look through them again." You tossed a few select papers onto the dining table. "Specifically these." I watched you wander the room, tossing away papers as you went.   
  
"Well, er… perhaps we're missing part of the problem here?" Lestrade continued, attempting to cool my temper and bring me back to attention. I waved him off. You laughed.   
  
"That much is obvious to a monkey," you commented, and I barked out a short laugh before covering my mouth. I'm sure I looked quite mad to the Inspector, and he noted as such.  
  
"Forgive me, Dr. Watson. I must ask however. Are you feeling quite well? The strain has been great on all of us. Perhaps now is not the time for you to be taking on a case of this magnitude."  
  
"I am fine!" I snapped. Something felt like it was itching just behind my eyes, digging around in my brain. I squeezed my eyes shut, sinking to a stool beside the work bench. You stood by the window, tossing pages out into the street. "Parts…" I muttered, disregarding Lestrade as he repeated my name, inching forward in concern.  
  
I stopped and stared at the bottle of wine and your pipe, sitting next to each other on the work bench. Missing a piece… a piece of the whole! With the zeal I had often seen you exhibit I leapt off the bench and away from Lestrade. I collected beakers and test tubes. Gladstone bumped against my leg and I shooed him away, engrossed in my experiment. You had gone, out the window perhaps, blown away by the breeze.  
  
"Pardon me Inspector!" I ejaculated, waving Lestrade towards the door with one hand, the other holding a beaker of the wine. "You will be more comfortable downstairs with Ms. Hudson. Have her make tea or sandwiches! I shall be with you momentarily with a key in this case!" I shut the door behind him and sprung back to the work bench.  
  
I combined the powder and the wine, but as I finished I realised that my meager supply of testing materials was gone, used up in the double test of the wine and powder. I cursed myself and my inefficiency! If only I had deduced to combine the wine and the powder from the beginning! Gladstone whined against my leg, and I nudged him away with little sympathy.  
  
"Leave me alone you pest. I'm sure Ms. Hudson will make something for… you too… " I looked down at our dog, as he heaved his massive head to the side. Surely the idea was not dawning on me. Surely I would not stoop to… I scrambled for a low-edged bowl, cleaning it out with my shirt to remove a layer of dust and old toast. I set it on the floor and poured some of the wine into it, adding in the powder from your pipe and stirring it. Gladstone eagerly lapped it up and I watched him, stooped over the edge of the work bench, feverishly waiting for any response.   
  
As the seconds ticked on my impatience grew. Gladstone panted happily, and satiated for the moment he lumbered to his feet and padded away. I watched him walk behind the sette. A moment later the dish was shattered against the wall as a litany of curses tore loose from my mouth. I stormed through the apartment, tossing aside chairs, throwing down your left over experiments fermenting on the shelves. Books were tossed shamelessly to the ground, spines broken. A sudden knocking drew my attention and I spun as the door opened. I am sure I was a sight for poor Lestrade and Ms. Hudson's eyes, for she says I was hunched like a beast, hands claw-like, eyes alight with unnatural fever.  
  
"Dr. Watson! My heaven, I thought for a moment Mr. Holmes had come back to haunt us!" She looked about the room in shock, her eyes drifting back to me in nervous flutters. Lestrade stood with his mouth hanging open in shock. "I will leave you to your… privacy." Ms. Hudson said with a bit of a wince, dropping the tray with tea and scones on an overcrowded table before closing the door quietly behind Lestrade. I heard her feet fly down the stairs and her own door slam shut as if she expected me to follow in a rage. I sank into your armchair in despair, the red mood having passed. Gladstone padded back up to my knee, a questioning look in his marble-like eyes. Lestrade seemed rooted to his place by the door.   
  
"No, I haven't got any more you useless dog." I said. "You're utterly unhelp-" My sentence was cut off as Gladstone suddenly blinked and fell heavily against my knee, snoring. I sat up with a jerk, leaning towards him hesitantly. I picked up an ear. Nothing. I picked up a paw and pinched the sensitive nerve between the pads. He snorted and shifted uncomfortably, but remained asleep. "Halloa! So that  _is_  how they did it! With the wine and the pipe!" My jubilation was cut short by Lestrade coughing loudly, reaching for the doorknob.   
  
"I will just be on my way," he said with a quiet voice, looking at Gladstone. "It is much like when he was still alive. You seem almost possessed with his ways right now, Doctor. I wish you well." He left, and my high mood left with him. I sat back down in the chair, petting Gladstone's sleeping form gently.


	9. Chapter IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson has solved the case, so there is but one thing left to attend to.

You drape yourself over the back of my chair, having returned it seems from your journey out the window.   
  
"Might you wake up now?" you ask, running your fingers gently through my hair. "I grow tired of your absence." I lean back in the chair, soaking into your hand.    
  
"Holmes, for the last time. I  _am_ awake. If anything, you are the one most like a sleeper. Eternally sleeping…" My eyes trail through the room, filling with a dark thought. "I see," I say, and I am rewarded with one of your rare looks of confusion.    
  
"Watson, I think you misunderstand me. I am  _not_  asleep."   
  
"No… you're dead," I reply, standing slowly. Gladstone rustles beside me, waking up from his drug-induced sleep. I pat him on the head.   
  
I gather the papers you left on the dining table, and rifle through them. Of course: the son had aims at taking over the illegal business from the beginning. The father's incarceration only furthered the young man's plans. No wonder he had been so pleased. I toss the papers to the side. Lestrade can figure out that much on his own; it is all in plain sight. Perhaps I will send a telegram on my way downtown. You watch me rummage about for my jacket and shoes, a peculiar look on your face. I can't look at it. Instead I search for Gladstone's leash. I clip it to his collar and he toddles around the room happily at the prospect of a walk.   
  
"Watson. Stop ignoring me. Wake up this instant!" I disregard your ranting, looking at my hat for a moment and pondering whether I should bother with it at all.    
  
"Might as well look stylish," I comment to no one, picking it up. I adjust myself in the mirror, fixing the shirt that had gone askew, straightening my tie, laying the opera jacket properly over my vest. You stalk around me like a caged animal as I walk to the work table and collect a sample of the wine in a dirty teacup.    
  
"I know what you're planning," you say, and I turn to you with mock surprise on my face. I lift the cup to my lips and drink it down as your face breaks into a scowl.   
  
"Oh indeed? The great Sherlock Holmes knows what I'm doing. How incredible," I reply with heavy sarcasm. I set the teacup down and pick up your pipe, slide it into my jacket, grab my cane and Gladstone's leash, and head out the door. I am met with a brisk blast of cool summer wind, the night having descended upon me during my hours of experimentation and melancholy.    
  
My walk is a pleasant one, and I find myself sooner than expected at my final destination. It is a large stone bridge near our apartments, overlooking the Thames. The black waters ooze below me, dark and concealing. The night is moonless; London is covered in a blanket of clouds that roll threateningly across the sky. You had left me alone during the walk, harassing me only in my brain, your voice chanting irritatingly for me to wake up. Gladstone and the leash are gone, and you sit in his place beside me as I lean against the bridge, propped up on my elbows. Your tone has changed from insistent and commanding to more of a plea, almost as if you are begging.   
  
"Please Watson! Wake up already!" The wine has had a pleasing affect; all poisoning aside it was a fine year and well made. I bring out your pipe and place it in my lips. You wrap your arms around my leg. "Stop this Watson! That's how you got yourself into this situation in the first place, the damned wine!" I shift free from your grip and step up onto the wall of the bridge, turning with the aid of a lamp post to look down at you.    
  
"Why wouldn't you ever let me smoke your pipe, Holmes?" I asked brashly, lighting the pipe with a match. You do nothing to stop me, sitting there down on the bridge. I suck in a few puffs, ensuring it is lit before taking it from my mouth to inspect it in the light of the lamp. As I blow the smoke from my lungs I feel the first tendrils of sleepiness overtake me. "It seems… to work much more quickly when inhaled…" I commented, and continued, "Not so unexpected for a poison." I grab onto the light post suddenly as dizziness overtakes me and instinct kicks in, but I let go after another moment, remembering my intent.    
  
You had sucked in a breath at the slip, and now words poured from your mouth like rain.    
  
"John! Please, for the love of God come down! This is not what I mean and you know it, I know you do. I'm begging you please, just open your eyes and wake up one more time." Yet you won't touch me, you won't reach up and stop me. I look up as a drop of rain patters against my cheek. It is warm, and I wipe it away with my hand, placing your pipe back in my mouth. I take in another deep breath of the tainted smoke as more rain begins to fall on my face, warm and salty as it drips over my lips. I am confused for a moment, thinking I have begun crying, but my eyes are dry.    
  
"Please John… just one more time come back to me. Even if it's just to say goodbye." I am too tired to open my lips, and my eyes fall closed heavily as my weight slips backwards. It is elation I feel, as the stones of the bridge slip away from beneath my feet. My stomach creeps into my throat, yet despite how heavy I feel, the fall is slow, soft. Your voice is in my ear, still begging as the rain falls down.   
  
"Open your eyes John…" I feel a pang of fear in my heart then, and my chest pounds. I can't do it; they are too heavy now. I couldn't open them even if I wanted to. I am still falling, yet perhaps, just once I will listen to you. I am frightened of what I will not see: your face will not be there. It will be black sky, hazy lights of the bridge falling away quickly, and then I will hit the water. If I keep my eyes closed that will not happen; I will stay here with your voice in my ear and this heavy weight crushing the breath out of me.    
  
"Please…" Your voice is so small that I turn my head to hear you better, and then with a tremendous effort, terror coiling like ice in my stomach,   
  
I open my eyes.


	10. Chapter X

My eyelids weigh so much I can barely crack them open, but what I see is not the black sky of London above me. Bright light floods in, blurred and white. I almost close my eyes again against this assault, but its warmth makes me cling on. I find I cannot move, and my arms seem pinned to my side. Vaguely I realise I am being held in someone's arms, and that I am lying in a bed. The window must be open, for a warm breeze blows over my face. With it comes a scent, one so welcoming and bewildering I don't know how to react. A pipe, rough soap and damp wool, rosin. Holmes. I feel rough cloth against my face, a button.    
  
I roll my head back, as it seems to be the only motion my twelve-ton body is capable of. Another raindrop falls against my cheek- no, not rain I realise. Tears they were indeed, but not mine… I try to lift my arms, but they refuse to listen. Through the blinding haze I see Holmes above me, cradling me. His tears? I groan, for he is still whimpering my name and calling to me, whispering over and over.   
  
"Please John, please, open your eyes, I need you to say goodbye, please John you can't leave me without saying goodbye…"   
  
"Holmes," I wheeze, the effort rendering me breathless. I watch his nostrils flare and feel his heart rate quicken against my face.    
  
"John?" he replies quickly, earnestly, wiping the tears from my face with his thumb. I try again to utter something aside from his name.   
  
"So… dizzy." It was true; despite feeling his body and the bed, I still felt as if I were spinning, falling into the Thames. The thought panics me as Holmes shifts, speaking as he lays me down in the bed.   
  
"You're dehydrated. You haven't been able to drink or eat anything -"   
  
"Don't let me fall!" I rasp as he tries to let me go against the bed. I find strength to wrap my fingers around his arms, clinging desperately. I fear if he lets go, if I lose this one link, I will fall away. He lets out a sudden sob, and gathers me back up.   
  
"I won't. I couldn't."   
  
Ms. Hudson and Mary walk in as my vision clears more, carrying tea for Holmes. He quickly shares it with me instead, although I can barely take a mouthful of the tea, and none of the food. Holmes holds me the whole time, comforting me and assuring me all is well. I find I grow weary quickly, and the thought of sleep terrifies me. I cannot protest much in my weak state, but I hold it off as long as possible. I cannot gauge the length of time I am awake before exhaustion claims me again. My dream, however, is blessedly nonsensical. I tell Holmes of it as I awaken once more in his arms.   
  
"Gladstone wanted my gallstones to play rugby with Ms. Hudson," I said haltingly. Holmes' peal of laughter was almost hysterical. I reveled in the sensations of waking once more,  and Holmes was ever by my side. As I gained strength, I drank more and ate more. I had many questions but Holmes refused to answer them until he felt I was well enough, and so I passed my time in pleasant company.   
  
~~~   
  
At last, a few days later Holmes explained everything. I was still weak from malnourishment, but also from the attempted poisoning. It seems that my memories of the party that night were slightly incorrect. The wine had indeed been poisoned, but with a formulae designed to cause death, not sleepiness. It is due to my own constitution and Holmes' quick actions that I did not die. There was no black powder, and no poisoned pipe; they were fabrications of my nightmare. The wine was indeed a lethal gift from the son of the family we'd helped, and it turns out he really was involved with his father's business. I am sure such details made their way into my fevered, hazy dream world as my body fought back against the poison.    
  
I did regain consciousness a few times; these are what my delirious mind interpreted as dreams and hallucinations of Holmes. He was there the whole time trying to help me, hoping that if I solved the case in my nightmare I would awaken. I was so weakened by starvation and dehydration by that point that Holmes had nearly given up, begging me to awaken just one more time so he could say goodbye.    
  
I close this journal now, an account of my incredible adventure down the rabbit hole, in hopes it will serve to comfort me when nightmares awaken me. I know Holmes will always be there when I need him. And that all I need to do is open my eyes and wake up.    
  


THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO! Thank you for reading! This was the first long fic I ever wrote. I'm still very proud of it, and I hope you enjoyed the ride!


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